Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,8
was much too frightened of her to protest.
Michael doesn’t have any servants, much less any horses, and his beloved dog Pavlov died not too long ago of old age (dogs don’t live as long as cats). Michael does, however, have a lot of furniture, plus tons of Star Wars memorabilia that he values greatly. He has every single Princess Leia action figure, some still in the box!
Still, I’d feel weird about smashing up his house with an ax, then stealing his stuff. Maybe I’d just light all the boxer briefs he’s left over here on fire (in the sink, for safety).
Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo
It’s a not-very-well-kept secret that my grandmother had a string of suitors before my grandfather, the wealthy Prince of Genovia, fell for her. One of them was a Texas oil baron she met in Monte Carlo while she was vacationing with friends. This gentleman was so smitten that he proposed on the spot (according to Grandmère’s version of events).
Unfortunately, it was soon discovered that the oil baron had, in romance-novel parlance, “a wife yet living”—but not before Grandmère had already spent a hefty amount of money on her trousseau.
So she did what any shrewd Genovian girl would do, and sued him for the cost of her new wardrobe (to the tune of a hundred thousand Genovian francs).
“Those gowns were handmade by Monsieur Dior! They cost two thousand dollars each,” she still says whenever the subject comes up. “What else was I to do?”
The guy paid up. It was apparently cheaper than getting a divorce.
Oh, ugh. All the insomnia websites say that to ensure a good night’s rest, you’re supposed to engage in soothing rituals right before you fall asleep, like taking a hot bath or sniffing lavender or drinking warm milk.
Few advise making lists of ways your royal ancestors got revenge on their boyfriends for cheating on them, and none mentions discussing your father’s recent run-in with the law—or the fact that he did it because he was trying to get back together with your mother.
But that’s exactly what Tina brought up later on during our conversation, and probably why I’m wider awake now than ever.
“Things have actually gotten a bit better since this news about your dad broke,” Tina said, just before we were about to quit FaceTiming. “Now there’s a lot less stuff on all the gossip sites about Boris, and more about how people think your dad wants a second chance with your mom.”
“Wait . . .” I was shocked. “What?”
“It’s true,” Tina insisted. “People think your dad took up race-car driving to get your mom’s attention now that your stepdad has died and she’s available again.”
I’ve seen a lot of wrongheaded and offensive things written about myself and my family, but that one really takes the cake. I’m not going to say it doesn’t hurt when people say bad stuff about me, particularly when it’s untrue, but I’m young and strong: I can take it.
But to say it about my mom, who isn’t really a public figure, and can’t defend herself, and my dad, who’s getting on in age, and is clearly becoming a tragic figure like Mickey Rourke, only without the boxing or tiny dogs?
“Well, if that’s what Dad’s up to, it’s a really bad strategy,” I spluttered. “My mom’s so not the type to care about trophies, unless it’s a Pulitzer, or maybe a Nobel.”
“I know, right? Your mom would never drop everything and come rushing to be at your dad’s bedside after half his face was burned off in a tragic race-car accident, because she’d be like, ‘He deserved it for being involved in such a dangerous sport in the first place.’ ”
“It’s true,” I said, then added, “Although that would have made an excellent scene in a movie that I would have paid full price to see in theaters, not even waited to watch at home on pay-per-view or HBO.”
“Oh my God, me, too.”
No wonder I can’t sleep.
Except that if this turns out to be true, Dad pretty much brought it on himself. Well, at least the part where he’s allegedly still in love with my mother, after more than twenty-six years (that’s how long ago he impregnated her while they were both college students back in the eighties, when drinking too much and being “in the moment” was an acceptable excuse for not using birth control, although not really, if you ask me. Well, twenty-five years and nine months ago. My birthday is tomorrow).
“Of course I don’t blame